


A Different Kind of "Giving Head"

by etherealApostate



Category: accidentally posted this twice whoops
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-07
Updated: 2017-03-07
Packaged: 2018-09-30 08:48:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10159199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/etherealApostate/pseuds/etherealApostate
Summary: Set after the fall of the Slates. Yata and Fushimi are roommates, have had one or two drunk, uh, encounters, but aren't a /thing/ yet. Starts with some ugly-crying and ends with a haircut (just like the good old days in LSW).





	

It wasn’t the first time Saru had seen Yata cry, but it was definitely in the top five most embarrassing times, not in the least because it was the first time since their cohabitation after the destruction of the Slates.

 

Saruhiko had walked in, tired and aching from the day’s field work, to find the third-in-command of Shizume City’s most feared gang sobbing his eyes out on the couch. Not just crying… ugly-crying. Right out weeping and wailing, no control. It was like looking at roadkill; without thought, Saru let his work satchel fall to the ground and stared unabashedly at Yata’s shuddering shoulders. 

 

For a few seconds, Saruhiko looked like a kid who had just been told what sex was: a sheer mixture of perturbation and disbelief; however, he’d seen this image enough times not to be long at a loss, and momentarily sat beside Yata, the side of his mouth twitching in involuntary discomfort. 

 

Yata’s breath caught as he turned and realized Saru had entered; he made a sort of sobbing-vacuum noise, like when the dentist puts the sucker thing in your mouth and it pulls the air right out of you. Still wary, Saru gently extended one arm to encircle Yata’s shoulders. 

 

With a series of short, hiccupy sobs, Yata shook his friend’s arm away and dragged one white sweatshirt sleeve roughly over his face. It came away shiny with tears and snot. 

 

“What’s the matter?” Saruhiko managed. Yata shook his head and launched into another wave of wetly asthmatic-sounding tears. 

 

He absolutely, definitely, no-matter-what could not tell Saru what was the matter. That would take him down about twenty pegs, for real. 

 

Saruhiko was hoping they could get this over with before dinner time. He knew his strengths, and “cooking” actually ranked lower on that list than “emotional support” did. This called for drastic measures. Well, not drastic, but…. Slowly, almost methodically, he replaced his arm around Yata’s shoulders, then added another, going so far as to properly cradle Yata in his arms. He immediately concluded that this particular flavor of intimacy was also ranked on the level of “emotional support” in his strengths list, and vowed to avoid it as much as possible in the future.

 

Yata allowed himself to be held, and they sat together for ten long minutes, the weak winter sun stretching imperceptibly thinner through the window as they waited for Yata’s tears to still. Finally, Yata could breathe normally, and again Saruhiko asked (more gently this time, or at least more softly, and soft meant gentle, right?), “What’s the matter, Yata?” 

 

Yata shook his head, damp brow nestled in the crook of Saru’s arm. “It’s so stupid… just… just don’t make me tell you, it’ll be fine -- “ 

_ Tch _ . “C’mon. I know you, I know not to expect anything  _ smart _ ,” Saru shot back without thinking, then felt his gut clench as he realized that might have been too harsh.

 

Yata didn’t take it poorly; he merely gave a limp giggle into Saruhiko’s arms. “I guess.” He raised his head, and Saruhiko realized exactly how blushed-over Yata’s face was (how long exactly had he been crying?), but then Yata muttered, “I-- I lost my wallet…. So I couldn’t go for a haircut.” 

 

Saru looked at him the way you’d look at a severely inbred cat, and then burst out laughing. 

 

“Hey! --HEY! STOP THAT!” Yata scolded, withdrawing promptly from Saru’s embrace to clench his mouth the way he did when he was embarrassed, in a tight angry line. 

 

As Saru’s laughter quickly faded, he wiped a slight tear from his eye and re-adjusted his glasses. 

 

“ _ Yata _ ,” he said, his voice hinting at its old teasing lull, “if your hair is really getting you that upset… I can always cut it for you.” 

 

Yata shrugged, his tear-ruddy face masking a slight blush, and raised one hand to yank absentmindedly at the reddish hair that was almost brushing his clavicles. It had been years since they had shared the strange intimacy of cutting one another’s hair. “Are you sure?” he asked. “I’ll get over it, I can just make dinner and find my wallet tomorrow and reschedule the appointment and--”

 

“No,” Saru said, shaking his head. “Nope.” He stood and grabbed his roomate’s arm, tugging him in the direction of their tiny bathroom. “C’mon.” 

 

Yata let out an exasperated sigh, but it wasn’t worth the fight at this point. “Fine. I hope you haven’t lost your skill.”

 

“ _ Tch _ . As if.” There was barely enough room for them to stand in the bathroom; Saru pushed Yata gently down onto the seat of the toilet, facing the mirror. “Stay.” Turning, he grabbed both their towels; one went around Yata’s neck, and the other was bunched over the grimy tile floor around the toilet. 

 

“Now-- give me just a second--” Saru said, and Yata let out an indignant noise as Saruhiko  _ climbed _ over him, straddling the back of the toilet directly behind him, and withdrew one of his razor-sharp daggers. 

 

“Better not cut me,” Yata muttered, his right hand’s fingers fidgeting in a nervous fist. Oh god, he could feel Saru’s body heat so close, his  _ breath _ , they hadn’t been this close since that one night when they were drunk and….

 

“What was that?” Saru interrupted, plucking the beanie from Yata’s head and fluffing out the long rust-colored hair beneath it.  _ So soft _ ….

 

Yata’s face screwed up a little and he said nothing. Sizing up one lock, then pulling it gently from Yata’s head, Saru began gently sawing through the hairs with his dagger. Each one snapped in turn, and in a moment Saruhiko’s handful of red hair fell gently to the floor. Saru didn’t pause to admire his handiwork, beginning to methodically select the next lock to be shorn.

 

“You should really use scissors, you know,” Yata said loudly, thumbing a little tear-crust from his eye’s corner. He saw Saruhiko shrug in the mirror before them. 

 

“These are honestly sharper,” was all Saru said in response, and yet more red hair drifted down to rest on the white towel beneath. 

For a while all Yata could feel was silence and the gentle brush of Saru’s fingers in his hair; the taut pull of the strands as they were severed; the light sensation of hairs nestling in the gap between his neck and the towel that surrounded it. 

 

Saru was almost done now, and Yata was about to get on to him because  _ god, Saru, you’re going to cut it too short, and I’ll look like a cancer patient when I wear my hat _ , but then he felt a gently prickling feeling at the base of his neck, and realized that Saruhiko was slowly dragging the point of the knife across his skin. 

 

“Hey! Cut it out!” Yata yelled, turning reflexively. In a short second, Saruhiko had captured him in a kind of reverse headlock, and suddenly their faces were too close -- 

 

And now all Yata could feel was the warm pressure of Saru’s lips against his own, and the cool tracing of Saru’s fingers through his hair. 


End file.
